


Claim

by AndreaLyn



Category: Band of Brothers RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gliding between the lines of characters and old friendships is a new balancing act they all have to learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claim

**Author's Note:**

> If you prefer to squint and see Liebgott/Webster out of it, please do.

He hears the commotion from just down the barracks when they’re doing the rotations for guard duty and all forty men are wondering just what they’ve gone and put themselves into. Ross is so tired that he’s started to think in the American accent and he’s sure if someone came across him on the path, he’d salute and answer faster to Liebgott than he would his own name. He’d been ready to ignore the noise before he heard the little cry of frustration, the one that sounds more like a sob of anger than anything else and the quiet reassurance from someone he never expected.  
  
“Hey, come on,” the voice is coaxing. “Just think, a couple more days.”  
  
“I swear I fucking sprained it,” Webster is...(Eion, Eion is, he needs to sleep before he starts passing this veil of confusion and wonders if he’s back in the 40’s or if he’s just a traveller unable to connect to a time long ago) ...complaining to someone. Ross starts to drift in that direction because the door is open and that’s as good as an invitation as he’s likely to receive and there he stands, a silhouette in the doorway in his combat gear, watching Speirs brush at Webster’s cheeks with crooked fingers, connections from home bridging this gap of space and time and character.   
  
They both look up at once and for all that Ross thinks Speirs is edging towards Settle too much, that glare is pure character and by the condescending look on Eion’s face, he’s living as Webster and if they’re playing by the rules, then Ross belongs.  
  
Liebgott belongs. Liebgott will not let anyone else have control of Webster the way  _he_  wants to have control. Ross should possibly be frightened by this line of thought, but it comes with such clarity that he won’t refute it and he meets the glare and the look of belittlement with a sneer of his own and a possessive and sharp look in Webster’s direction.   
  
He inserts himself into the situation both figuratively and literally, planting himself in a stand between Webster on the bed and Speirs on the chair next to him.  
  
“The hell’s going on?” he demands and wonders, slightly, if he’s going to join the ranks of actors who let the line blur so much that they’ve forgotten what feelings are their own and which belong to a character that they’re reluctant to let go of. He knows the scripts shift and change, but he’s seen them, he’s seen how things are going to play out and he knows this: Webster is  _his_. His to upset, his to make happy, his to give approval, and his to condemn.  
  
Eion seems to break through slightly and shoots Ross a weary look. “It’s...it’s nothing, really,” he assures and sounds exasperated as anything. “I think I sprained my wrist during training today, but with the insurance issues after Neal, I didn’t think to bring it...”  
  
He’s out. He’s slipped so far and Ross isn’t going to go this way alone. Even Speirs behind him is silent as the grave, watching as the situation progresses.   
  
“Sir,” Ross comments flatly to Speirs. “Permission to take care of Private Webster?”  
  
“Matt,” Eion pleads quietly and shoots a look at the other man and suddenly Ross feels guilty for intruding on this moment. It’s when he sees that longing and desperate need in Eion’s eyes for the other man that he gets a glimpse of guilt and remorse, but those emotions don’t last for longer than a few moments when one single thought crosses his mind:  
  
 _This isn’t modern day anymore. You’re not his and he’s not yours. No more yeah, yup, awesome. Okay. This it it._  
  
“Permission granted,” says Speirs with the conviction of a man who doesn’t want to let go, but has to and Ross does his best not to smile a cunning little grin when he leaves them alone on the bed, sitting hip to hip with a wounded wrist between them.  
  
Liebgott is out in full force now and there’s nothing of Ross left. That tired man is asleep and letting character drive him forward and as he runs his fingers over Webster’s wrist, he knows that he’s going to be the break of him and the joy of him in days to come.  
  
“Web,” he exhales, searching up and finding blue eyes riddled with pain and confusion and anger and pleasure all at once (some things Kenyon, some things not). “What’d you do to yourself? I thought I told you not to be a goddamn jackass and get yourself hurt.”  
  
“Lieb, I...”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” he says firmly, means it.  _Lives it_. He reaches across and brushes away at that last strain of wetness on his cheek. “I’m going to make sure you don’t do another fucking thing like this. You’re not  _his_.”  
  
The line breaks and Ross forgets there was ever a barrier holding everything back. It blurs now and it stays that blurry until the dawn of morning and he can’t taste Webster’s lips on his own and his wrist is being taped up before jump training.   
  
When he catches Speirs’ eye in the training hall (when Webster is still hovering nearby), Liebgott does the only thing he knows how. He gloats.  
  
And with a cocky wink and gunclick of his cheeks in Speirs’ direction, he goes about his day’s work of making Webster blush, doing his goddamn job, and being the best paratrooper he can be.


End file.
